


Seeing the Obvious

by Living_In_a_Fantasy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Injury, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-16
Updated: 2012-07-16
Packaged: 2017-11-10 01:48:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,148
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/460903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Living_In_a_Fantasy/pseuds/Living_In_a_Fantasy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John had only seen Sherlock terrified a handful of times. He could safely say that this was one of the worst. A loose sequel to The Right Kind of Experiment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seeing the Obvious

**Author's Note:**

> Although this story is a loose sequel to The Right Kind of Experiment, it can stand alone, though you won't understand all of the references. I had this idea in mind halfway through my first Sherlock story, so I had to write it.

John had only seen Sherlock terrified a handful of times. He could safely say that this was one of the worst. He’d seen Sherlock’s face during the pool incident, his instinctive panic several months ago when a criminal had nearly strangled him if not for John’s intervention, and the stark fear when John had been stabbed, as Sherlock held his own scarf to the wound and had nearly begged John to live. But this was a different type of fear.   

And in the end, the fact that it was a relatively simple case was what really upset John. The case had been interesting enough for Sherlock to take it, but within the day he’d already declared that he knew who the killer was. The killer, Charles Gregson, had attempted to hide his tracks, but had not been overtly successful, and later when cornered by Sherlock, John, and Lestrade in a small, dirty pub, he’d not even attempted a defense. He’d just fled.

                And this was how the trio found themselves racing through the back alleys and narrow streets of east London. Sherlock was in the lead (his mental map of London was really quite priceless while chasing criminals) with John and Lestrade trailing not too far behind. Gregson dashed across the street, not pausing to check for traffic, and Sherlock followed. He ignored the blaring of horns and only just moved quickly enough to avoid being hit by a bus. Gregson was darting into a dark alley and Sherlock put on an increased bout of speed to catch up with him.

                What he hadn’t expected when careening into the alley was for the Gregson to have stopped. He didn’t have the momentum to stop himself and Gregson’s fist flew into his jaw, knocking him off balance. Sherlock caught himself against the wall, and the killer took the distraction as a chance to gain some distance.

                Sherlock wasn’t giving up that easily, and he practically threw himself at the retreating man. He tackled him against the wall, trying to force his arms behind his back, but the man jerked his head back, slamming it into Sherlock’s nose. His grip slackened at the sudden blossom of pain, and Gregson took that opportunity to deliver a blow to the consulting detective’s stomach. Another fist against his jaw had him on the ground. Sherlock’s hands were already under him and pushing up, because he only needed to hold him a few moments more, as John and Lestrade were surely almost there, when Gregson struck.

                At first Sherlock thought the man was going to kick him in the face, but instead his shoes scraped against the ground, and a shower of gravel and very possibly glass was sent flying straight into Sherlock’s face. His body curled instinctively as shooting pain shot through his eyes. His hands rose uselessly, hesitating to touch but wanting to do something. He shifted towards his knees, blinking, which just seemed to make the pain worse. An involuntary cry of pain was ripped from his mouth and he lifted his hands closer, moving to rub his eyes, to get whatever was in them out.

                “Sherlock, stop.” Suddenly John was there, voice stern as he kneeled beside him. He took Sherlock’s wrists firmly and pulled them from his face. “Close your eyes,” he instructed and Sherlock obeyed. His mouth pressed down in a thin line and his hands were shaking. John’s hands tightened around his, encouragingly. “That’s it, Sherlock. Keep them closed. Don’t touch them, and try not to let your eyes move much. You need to keep them as still as you can, okay?”

                “Yes.” His voice came out quieter and more weakly than he’d wanted. Slowly, John shifted him until he was sitting on the cold ground.  His hands left him and Sherlock could hear him looking through his pocket. Another wave of sharp pain assaulted him and his hands rose without him thinking about it. John gently halted their progress with one hand. The other was dialing for an ambulance. Sherlock found it oddly difficult to focus on John’s words, instead trying to suppress his panic.

                His breaths came more quickly as he tried to hold down on that panic. The pain was severe, which meant the debris must have scratched his eyes. He could lose his sight over this. He may never see again because of some jealous ex-lover. His chest grew tight and he felt lightheaded.

                “Easy, Sherlock.” This time it was Lestrade’s voice that reached him. His hand settled, careful but strong on his shoulder. “Deep breaths. John’s calling for an ambulance.”

                “Gregson?” he forced out, because he needed something, anything else to focus on.

                “We’ve apprehended him. Just relax.”

                He was trying, but it felt like he was tied up in that room again, only instead of the knife hovering against his eye with the man’s amused laughter filling his ears, he’d already been struck. He’d dreamed of this scenario multiple times since that day, but the dreams had been irrational. People simply did not get blinded that often.

                His breaths were still short and shallow. John hung up the phone and dropped it carelessly to the ground, and quickly wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders, pulling Sherlock against him. He leaned into his blogger gratefully. One of John’s hands was clasped tightly against his shoulder, the other was rubbing soothing circles on the top of one of his hands. He shifted, clenching John’s hand in such a tight grip that it must have been painful, but the other man didn’t say anything, just murmuring soothingly.

                “John.” Sherlock was sure that weeks from that point, if he hadn’t lost his sight, he would be humiliated at how small his voice was. “John, my eyes.”

                “I know, Sherlock, I know.” His voice was calm and steady, but if Sherlock’s eyes weren’t closed he would have seen how John was fighting to suppress his own panic. Lestrade was pacing in the alley, looking lost, before finally muttering something about watching for the ambulance. His footsteps faded quickly. Sherlock’s breath caught and John squeezed his hand harder. “You’ll be alright.”

                Sherlock’s cheeks were damp and his chest tight. But nothing could overpower the overwhelming pain in his eyes. “I can’t lose them, I can’t.”

                “I know. But we have remarkable surgeries. I doubt he managed to kick enough into your eyes to do permanent damage. Did he get one side more than the other?”

                It was hard to tell, since everything hurt, but Sherlock did eventually speak. “My left eye.”

                “Okay good, the more information to pass along the better.”

                The sound of sirens filled the air not long after. Suddenly, everything was a rush of ambulances, doctors, and waiting rooms. John sat stiffly in a chair while Lestrade, who had waved off concerns of heading back to work, was still pacing. Mycroft had said he was heading over as well.

                And now that John no longer had to reassure Sherlock and keep him from hurting himself further, he had time to think. He had time to think, and to let his own spark of panic fester. He’d seen Gregson kick the debris into Sherlock’s eyes. As much as he had wanted to beat the man to a pulp, Sherlock had needed him. John had thought the fear in Sherlock’s voice over the phone all those months ago had been bad, but this had been so much worse.

                It was his left eye that was the big concern. The majority of the gravel and a bit of glass had struck there, as his head was turning upwards. The doctors had done what they could, and both his eyes had been bandaged. The bandages would come off in a week, giving the scratches time to heal. Until the bandages came off, they didn’t know how much, if any, of his sight Sherlock would have. The doctors prescribed him some heavy painkillers, which John already knew Sherlock wouldn’t be able to take, and the next day sent him home.

                Sherlock was, understandably, not happy with the diagnosis. He complained and agonized the staff but John recognized it for what it was; Sherlock was scared that he was going to lose at least one of his eyes. Even Donovan and possibly Anderson would have been able to deduce that one.

                Sherlock was irritable and in great pain. He made a particular scathing remark about the state of Lestrade’s marriage as he dragged himself from the D.I’s car. John tried to apologize but Lestrade waved him off. “Typical Sherlock,” he stated simply. “I’ll pop around later this week to check up on you.”

                John nodded and bid him goodbye, hovering near Sherlock, since the idiot wouldn’t let him help him up the stairs. “Why is he coming to our flat this week? I doubt he’ll ask me to work while I’m like this.”

                “Because he’s our friend, Sherlock. He doesn’t just use you for cases. He wants to see that you’re okay.”

                Sherlock grumbled something in response but said nothing more, focusing on the stairs that he’d walked so many times before. Although he knew exactly where they were, they seemed much harder to navigate when he could not see them.

                The next couple of days were difficult. Sherlock did not appreciate being treated like an invalid, and constantly complained of boredom. John was both excited and terrified for the bandages to come off, because if Sherlock did lose his sight…well he really didn’t want to think about it.

/…/…/

 

                John was a relatively light sleeper. It came from being a soldier, and on the occasions that Sherlock did sleep, John often found it difficult for himself to do the same. Sherlock was quite childish when he was awake, and that certainly did not change while he was sleeping. He didn’t lie in bed so much as he sprawled across it, whether John was there or not. If Sherlock needed to crash after ignoring his body for too long and John was still up, he’d simply take over the whole bed. It took John a lot of effort to move the other man enough to squeeze into bed himself. If Sherlock joined him in bed he’d typically take the opportunity to lie across him in any way he pleased. Sometimes John found his chest to be a pillow, or his head an armrest, or on one particularly odd occasion, Sherlock attempted to sleep horizontally across the bed, legs stretched like pretzels and face pressed against John’s crotch. He’d found it very difficult to sleep that night. He hadn’t expected the change in their relationship to make Sherlock much more considerate but that had been a little ridiculous.

                “You know, it’s a tad annoying when your partner’s mouth is sitting on your crotch all night,” John had stated irritably the next morning while making tea.

                “You could have woken me,” Sherlock stated, not looking up from his phone. Sometimes John thought he was a teenage girl, the way he was glued to the thing.

                John glared at him. “I tried to make you get off me at least, but you grumbled something about scalping Donovan and pressed closer.”

                Sherlock blinked up at him. “I faintly remember thinking her hair would make a good wig.”

                John had just decided to let it go.

                And the annoyances were truly not that bad. He quite liked it when Sherlock slept like a nearly sane person. He hesitated to call it cuddling, because that word with Sherlock Holmes didn’t seem to make logical sense, but he also wasn’t sure what other word to use for it. And he had less nightmares when Sherlock was in bed with him.

                And since they’d been together for a few months, John was very familiar with Sherlock’s sleeping habits, including his nightmares. He didn’t have them often, but when he did, they were bad. He didn’t flail about in his sleep, or speak, or scream. Instead, he was absolutely still, and it was so unlike him that the first time John had seen it he’d thought the other man had died. His breathing got extremely shallow and short, as if he were afraid to breathe and be heard by whatever haunted him. When he woke up, it was typically with a huge gasp of air, and he’d breathe heavily for quite some time. One time, he’d even punched John across the face, and it was almost worth it to see the sheer amount of guilt and embarrassment on his face when he woke up fully.

                So John recognized the signs of a nightmare. That night when Sherlock, who was sprawled across his chest, suddenly went still, John knew what was coming. He tried to coax the other man awake as his breathing grew muted. He could feel only the smallest rise and fall of his chest. “Sherlock,” he said, shaking his shoulder. “Wake up.”

                He twitched slightly at his voice, brows furrowing in concentration. “Come on, Sherlock,” John said. Speaking to him was very hit and miss. Sometimes it worked brilliantly, sometimes it made things worse, and sometimes it didn’t work at all. This was one of the fortunate times, because several minutes later Sherlock lunged upwards with a huge inhale, head turning. His breathing hitched and his hands clawed at the bandages around his eyes. John leapt forward and forced his hands away. “Sherlock, stop! You have to leave the bandages.”

                “I can’t see. I need to see.”

                Oh, God, why now? Of course it made sense that this nightmare would emerge now. Sherlock had had variations of the same nightmare since the night he was abducted. He didn’t like to talk about them, but John knew they ranged from the events of what had happened, to more creative, gruesome ways of actually blinding him. Normally after such a dream, his eyes would flicker across the room for a minute or so before focusing on John’s face.

                Not having that seemed to be sending the man into a small panic. “Sherlock, Sherlock,” John said loudly, squeezing his hands tightly. “Listen to me. You’re alright. You’re in our flat. You were hurt, so you have bandages around your eyes that can’t come off for about a week, okay?”

                Sherlock snatched his hands away. “It’s my eyes that are suffering, not my memory,” he snapped, which was good, because at least he was aware of where he was. Sherlock was still taking quick, deep breaths, but he wasn’t in a state of panic. That was progress.

                “Shall I make tea?” John asked finally. It was just past three in the morning, and he’d rather go back to sleep, but it was Sherlock so he was used to sleepless nights.

                “I’m not useless, I can make my own tea if I want it.”

                John raised an eyebrow. “Really? You could’ve fooled me. I expect you’ll be making us tea more often then.”

                Sherlock scoffed. “I am perfectly capable of making tea, I just choose not to. It is tedious.”

                John rolled his eyes. “Right, of course.”

                “Do not roll your eyes at me. I have more important things to do than putter about the kitchen making tea.”

                John decided to ignore both the fact that Sherlock could deduce him even without his eyes, and that he’d just been mildly insulted, and laid back down. “Alright then, lie back.”

                Sherlock remained sitting. “I’m really quite awake now, so I—”

                “Down,” John said, gripping Sherlock’s arm and pulling down quickly. Sherlock landed in a tangle of limbs, half tangled in John, half in the blankets.

                “You can’t just command me around like—”

                John silenced him again, this time by leaning forward to capture the consulting detective’s lips with his. For a moment he thought Sherlock might pull away, purely out of stubbornness, but moments later the tension slowly began to ease from his shoulders, and he allowed his body to relax on top of John’s. They kissed slowly for several minutes before Sherlock eventually pulled back and laid his head on John’s chest. “That’s quite an unfair advantage to use on me,” he remarked.

                John chuckled, pressing a kick kiss to the top of his head. “Yes well, it’s a mutual unfair advantage.” He felt Sherlock smirk against his chest as he shifted, taking up nearly all the space as usual and going quiet. John really wouldn’t have it any other way.

/…/…/…/

                “I’m bored, John,” Sherlock said the next day. John ignored him, as he’d been trying to do for the entire day. “John.”

                “You’ve rejected all of my proposals,” John reminded him.

                “That’s because they were boring.”

                John rolled his eyes towards the ceiling and took a breath, reminding himself to be patient. Sherlock couldn’t work, read, or properly do his experiments. John was sure if he were in that position, he’d be bored as well. And though Sherlock seemed to refrain from complaining too much about the pain, John knew it was bad. He could tell from the stiff way Sherlock held himself.  “The bandages come off in three days,” he reminded, standing and moving to the fridge. He sighed, because they were nearly out of milk, and glanced at the time. Lestrade was coming by in a couple of hours and they really would need more milk with tea. “I’m going to the shop,” John stated, moving towards the door. “Do you need anything before I go?”

                He was sure that if Sherlock could, he’d be shooting a poisonous glare at him right now. “I’m sure I can survive without your presence for under an hour, though I thank you for the confidence you have.”

                He didn’t dignify that with a response.

                It didn’t take him particularly long to run to the shop and back, but as he approached the door, a large crash from inside nearly made him drop the shopping. “Sherlock?” he called, rushing inside. Not immediately finding the consulting detective where he’d left him curled in a chair, he headed towards the kitchen.

                It was apparent that his earlier words had made Sherlock want to prove something, because he’d been trying to make tea. The kettle was turned sidewise, steaming water spilling across the table and onto the floor. Surrounding Sherlock’s bare feet was a mess of broken glass that had once been a mug. “Sherlock, stay still, yeah?” Although it was phrased as a question, it sounded more like a command. John quickly righted the kettle and brushed the glass aside. “Alright, just step this way. I’ve moved the glass.”

                “I can make tea, John,” Sherlock growled.

                “Yes, I do know you are capable of making tea. No step this way, you’ll step in the hot water.”

                “I can get by without you.”

                “Yes, yes I know.”

                “But I couldn’t see and spilled the water on my hand, then knocked the mug over. I can’t even make tea without my eyes, how am I supposed to work?” 

                John wasn’t used to dealing with an almost vulnerable Sherlock and frankly wasn’t sure what approach would work best. “We’ll figure it out. And if you really did lose your sight, you’d pick up how to do things quickly. Losing your eyes wouldn’t diminish your brain.”

                “I cannot use my brain if I cannot see.”

                He’d led Sherlock back to his chair when a knock came at the door. He held back a groan. Now was really not a good time for Lestrade to show up. Nevertheless, he let the man in, who seemed to note the tension in the room as he stepped in. “Afternoon John, Sherlock.”

                Sherlock ignored him and John offered him a seat. “Excuse me for a few minutes,” John said, moving to the kitchen to clean up the glass and water properly. He decided against bringing up tea and set about just making it instead. He could hear Lestrade attempting (and failing rather pitifully) to make small talk.

                “Getting on alright then?”

                “Aside from the fact that I’m blind and in constant pain, I am bored out of my mind. I’m sure even you can draw the correct conclusions from that.”

                Lestrade rolled his eyes, much like an exasperated parent. “You’re not blind, don’t be quite so dramatic. Those bandages will be off in a couple of days and you’ll be back to terrorizing my people in no time.”

                “And if I’m not? What am I to do if I do not regain my sight? My most valuable asset, to observe, will be gone. As intelligent as I am even I cannot deduce a murder by reading minds. If I cannot observe, I cannot do your job for you.  Then what will I do?” His tone was snarky, and though John couldn’t see him, he could tell just in the undercurrent of his voice that Sherlock was worried. It broke his heart to see him like that. This shouldn’t happen to anyone, especially to Sherlock.

                “Now that’s just rubbish,” Lestrade’s voice broke through the tension, voice rising in slight anger. “Stop feeling sorry for yourself.”

                “Excuse me?” Sherlock sounded honestly baffled.

                John paused and moved to the doorway, looking into the room. Lestrade was leaning forward, face twisted in an annoyed scowl that Sherlock was unable to appreciate at the moment. There was tension about his shoulders as he stared hard at the consulting detective. “You heard me. Your greatest asset is not your eyes, it’s your mind. And that still works perfectly fine without your sight.”

                “But if I cannot see—”

                “You can figure out things from the case information alone that Scotland Yard cannot,” Lestrade interrupted without shame. “Even if you lose your sight, which I highly doubt, I’d still consult you on cases. We could give you all the information we have, and give you all the details on the crime scenes, as insignificant as it may seem.  It may not be as satisfying, or as simple, but you could get on well enough. So no more talk of this. I put up with your complaining quite enough as it is.”

                A stunned silence filled the room. John shuffled back to the kitchen to finish making tea. By the time he’d served it, no one had spoken, save Lestrade’s words of thanks.  Lestrade spoke up again after realizing no one quite knew what to say. “I brought some cold cases with me; left them down in the car. Wasn’t sure if you’d feel up to them yet, what with all that eye pain. I figured John could read you the files if he could spare the time.”

                “I could do that,” John agreed quickly.

                Sherlock was silent for several moments. “That would be quite good, yes. They should eliminate some of the tedium of sitting about the flat all day.”

                Lestrade seemed to know that was the closest to a ‘thank you’ he was going to get, and John marvelled that this man had gotten through to Sherlock when he couldn’t.

                Lestrade certainly wasn’t as thick as Sherlock always seemed to say he was.

/…/…/…/

                After Lestrade’s visit, Sherlock poured himself into cold cases. It meant less sleep for John, who spent hours reading him the information in the middle of the night, but he was glad to do it. Sherlock was no longer moping about the flat. Instead he took the cases as a personal challenge. “After all, John,” he’d said later that day after Lestrade had left, “I solve cold cases for Lestrade sometimes, and all I have to go on is what is in the file and the pictures of the crime scene which really are quite amateur. I’ve always managed that without trouble.”

                A positive attitude hadn’t been soundly proven to help recovery time, but John thought it was true. Distracted with the cases, the tension from the pain seemed to ease a bit from Sherlock. He had some energy again. And several days and a few solved cold cases later, they went in to have the bandages removed.

                “Now we’re going to do this slowly to let your eyes adjust. Let us know when you start to see a bit of light. We want to go slowly to give your eyes time to adjust.” The doctor said.

                It was an agonizingly slow process. John stood at Sherlock’s side anxiously, and Sherlock was brimming with impatience. After several layers of the bandage had been unravelled, he seemed to perk up. “I can see light.”

                “That’s a very good sign,” the doctor said.

                The process seemed even slower after that, but Sherlock confirmed he could see light and it appeared to be with both eyes. The moment the bandages were fully removed he turned his gaze on John. Slowly, a small, genuine smile quirked on his lips as his eyes absorbed John’s face. Their eyes locked, and their eyes alone spoke for them.

                _Good to see you again._


End file.
